How to Pretend
by starry19
Summary: 2x04 Tag - "She looked up at him, eyes giving away nothing about her opinion of him in particular, only that she was exhausted and wholly damaged this night. He found he was unwilling to let her go back to her room and cry into her pillow." Garcy
1. Chapter 1

AN: For those of you expecting a Lyatt story - walk away right now. Go read my other tag for 2x04, because this is me flirting with the Dark Side, at least for this fic. You have been warned.

(Lyatt is still my ship...but I am deeply intrigued by Garcy. Possibly starting to border on "obsessively intrigued.")

If you're still with me, this is probably my second or third Garcy thing I've written, but the first to see the light of day. Please let me know what you think!

*originally on AO3, but then I thought why not?*

 **How to Pretend**

Lucy emerged from her room in a tank top, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Jiya following. Of course, he noted, she would have needed help getting out of her shapeless bag.

She looked…bad, quite frankly. She was deathly pale, blood still smeared on the side of her face, his pilfered handkerchief wrapped around her wound. He was also assuming she would have looked better if she hadn't had to confront what he thought was her boyfriend's previously dead wife. After her mother had tried to sentence her to death.

In fact, now that he thought about it, it was a wonder she hadn't collapsed on the floor somewhere.

He moved, half turning to ease her into the curve of his arm, hand curled lightly at her waist. She didn't protest.

He liked the idea that she wasn't opposed to him touching her.

Wyatt certainly was.

But he didn't have a right to be.

Without speaking, he led her to the makeshift sickbay. There was an army doctor there, procured by Agent Christopher. Lucy was in need of stitches and painkillers. Also antibiotics. God knew what sorts of germs she had picked up from that blade.

He stood at her side as her face tightened in pain, taking one step closer when she unconsciously leaned towards him, searching for reassurance. Her teeth were buried in her bottom lip.

"Hang in there," he whispered, watching the doctor stitch. He bowed his head over hers.

In another five minutes, it was all over, and she was downing the highest recommended dosage of her painkiller. He noticed her hands were shaking as she chased the pills with a glass of water.

Carefully, he rearranged the blanket over her shoulders.

"I'm sure they're waiting for us to debrief them," he said quietly. "But if you're not up to it, I imagine everyone would understand."

She shook her head. "I'm fine."

That was clearly a lie, so he raised his eyebrow, but helped her down from the examination table anyway. She was somewhat less than steady on her feet.

"Let me know if you're going to faint," he advised. "So we can try to avoid more stitches today."

She rolled her eyes, but took his arm before he had even offered it.

Very slowly, they made their way down the hall.

Everyone was indeed waiting for them, arranged around the battered kitchen table. Including Jessica Logan. His eyebrow went up a touch more, but he gently sat Lucy in a chair before dropping into the seat next to her. Wyatt looked distinctly murderous before he remembered that he wasn't allowed to anymore.

"So?" Agent Christopher asked. "Let's have it."

Lucy drew a deep breath and began to speak, Rufus adding things in here and there as she went. When she got to the accusation that had led to her arrest, she hesitated, and he took over. She shot him a grateful look, and he nudged her knee under the table.

It was easy, being part of her team.

Everyone looked vaguely horrified when he revealed Carol's part in all of this.

And now Wyatt looked like he was considering saying the hell with it all, lunging across the table, and scooping Lucy into his arms.

For just a second, he wondered what it would be like to be in the other man's shoes, and he felt a stirring of pity for Wyatt Logan. This could not be easy.

There was a stretch of silence when he finished filling them all in. Agent Christopher eventually let out a deep breath. "Right. Anyone have anything they'd like to add in before we wrap this up?"

Rufus unexpectedly raised a hand. "Next time, Flynn gets a gun. No, two guns."

"Agreed," Lucy said from next to him. "Rufus and I almost died today, and the only reason we didn't is because Flynn beat up Ben Franklin's uncle and stole his musket."

There was a series of blinks from around the table.

Connor Mason looked almost amused. "You beat up Ben Franklin's uncle?"

Flynn shrugged. "Twice. He was a little bit of an asshole."

Lucy snorted, and Agent Christopher dismissed them.

Rufus and Jiya immediately stood and went their own way. Wyatt stood, held out a hand to his wife, looked uncertain if she was going to take it. She did, and he felt Lucy's tension. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wyatt look back at least twice.

He turned to her. "How's the arm feeling?"

She forced a tight smile that came nowhere close to reaching her eyes. "Still attached."

"Better than the alternative," he told her.

Slowly, Lucy bent forward and rested her cheek against the table. Her eyes closed.

He didn't know if she wanted to be alone or not. It was an irrelevant question, as he wasn't going to leave her alone at the moment, face down on a piece of hard furniture.

Without thinking much about what he was doing, he leaned over and brushed her hair back, giving him an unobstructed view of her face. She looked up at him, eyes giving away nothing about her opinion of him in particular, only that she was exhausted and wholly damaged this night.

He found he was unwilling to let her go back to her room and cry into her pillow.

Abruptly, he stood, then reached for her, one hand taking hers, the other resting at her waist. She furrowed her brows, but didn't pull away. Perhaps she lacked the energy.

He led her to the small couch, urged her to sit. He dropped beside her, then draped an arm around her shoulders, gently tugging her close.

"What-" she started to ask, but he hushed her.

"You have had the day from hell," he said, quietly. "Between boyfriends and family members and a lot of asshole Puritans. You're holding it together by a thread." She didn't argue, and he continued. "I realize I'm not who you really want, but I'm who you have. If you need to lean on me, do it. If you need to cry on my shoulder, cry. If you just want to sit here until you understand you're not alone, do that, too. But some good, old-fashioned human contact is the best thing for you."

She held his eyes for a few moments, trying to decipher his words, but there was nothing to interpret. He meant what he said, and he hoped it showed on his face.

Evidently it must have.

With a small exhalation, she tipped her head onto his chest, cradling her wounded arm between them. He shifted, turning into her just a bit, and he felt her start to give into her exhaustion, to let go of her tightly held self-control.

She spilled a few tears onto his shirt. He wondered what it would be like, for Lucy to care about him enough to cry over him.

Then again, at least he wasn't the one who _made_ her cry.

That was something.

As her painkillers kicked in, she leaned more heavily against him, fingertips pressing against his ribs, cheek next to his heartbeat.

He hoped he didn't smell like 1692.

Eventually, he rested his cheek on the top of her head, fumbling one-handed for the blanket draped over the back of the standard-issue vinyl couch. With a little difficulty, as she seemed unwilling to move, he spread it over her.

She was so small, pressed against his side. Her slight stature wasn't something he typically thought about. She had _presence_.

But here, now, it was impossible to ignore her slight frame, the delicate wings of her collarbone.

Softly, so softly he wasn't sure she would feel it, he touched his lips to the top of her head. He wasn't sure he _wanted_ her to feel it, either.

He thought maybe she did, though. Her thumb slid across an inch of his chest, then back.

And that was quite enough for tonight. She was deeply vulnerable, and he absolutely would not take advantage of her emotional state. She needed held, needed to know she wasn't alone. He would not move beyond that, not now.

So he settled for holding her a little tighter, legs stretched out in front of him. Her breathing deepened, became even, and he was comforted by the idea that she at least wasn't sobbing by herself somewhere.

It had been one hell of a day.

Lucy's warm weight, coupled with the aftermath of high adrenaline situations, was pulling him under. He closed his eyes.

His last conscious thought was of what Wyatt's face would look like if he was the one that discovered them here.

It was cruel of him, he knew, but he smiled. Just a little.

Always a silver lining.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Uh, was this going to have a chapter two? No. But my brain said WRITE MOAR, so I did. This may have gotten out of hand, just a smidgen.

Oh, and HEY. Thanks to everyone who reviewed or dropped me a line or was just basically AMAZING in general. And yes, there will be a second episode tag for The Kennedy Curse, featuring my favorite trash can ship. Yup. Borderline obsessed.

 **How to Pretend**

 **Chapter Two**

To say it was a shock to wake up in Garcia Flynn's arms was an understatement. She had been having a dream, albeit an annoyingly realistic one, about the day from hell. Jessica Logan had suddenly reappeared from the dead, and her own mother had tried to have her executed for witchcraft.

None of which were _actually_ a dream, apparently.

Her arm hurt.

So did her head.

And her heart.

But she was warm, and felt oddly secure.

And then she woke up, and realized she was warm because she was curled up in the arms of a wanted time-traveling terrorist. The idea that she could feel secure in such a situation was a little more than she preferred to think about just now.

She took a deep breath. He smelled good. Different than Wyatt, but still good.

But she shouldn't be thinking about Wyatt, and who was sleeping in _his_ arms.

Deliberately, she breathed again.

Flynn still smelled good.

The clock on the nearest wall told her that it was almost time for the rest of the bunker inhabitants to be up and wandering around. She didn't want to be found here. It wasn't that she was embarrassed, not really. It was that this…what had happened, was private. Something to sort through later.

Rufus would look at her with raised brows and suspicion, Wyatt would be hurt and jealous ( _not_ that he had the right, she reminded herself), and Agent Christopher would probably be amused. And she didn't want to have to explain how Garcia Flynn's arms were the most secure place she had been in the past 24 hours.

Carefully, moving slowly, she untangled her limbs from his. As she rose, she glanced down at him, only to see with a start that his eyes were open. He said nothing, just watched her with warmth and amusement. She stared for a moment, unsure, but then his lips turned up in a smile that could only be described as tender.

She fled.

As always, she eyed the chair in front of the bathroom door warily as the hot water poured over her. Her arm stung and didn't work at all like she wanted it to, but she did manage to get the blood washed off her face and her hair clean.

The room she shared with Jiya was blessedly empty, meaning that the other woman was probably with Rufus. She felt an abstract sense of jealousy that someone else's life wasn't as much of a disaster as hers, and then chuckled darkly.

It hurt, and it took longer than she would have expected, but she did her hair and makeup. It was a petty thing, probably irrational, but she didn't want to look like a homeless bum in front of Wyatt's wife.

Or, a small voice in her mind said, in front of Flynn.

Or Wyatt, come to that.

Even though both men had already seen her at her very best and very worst.

She was the last one to arrive in the small kitchen area. This was good, as it allowed her to slip in as unobtrusively as was possible under the circumstances.

Wyatt and Jessica were sitting at the table, and she tried for a normal smile. The look in his eyes was painful.

Flynn's back was to her and she wondered if she could avoid him, too, but no, he was standing in front of the coffee pot, blasted man.

As she approached, he turned, facing her, and wordlessly handed her a cup of coffee. His hair was wet from his own shower.

"Thank you," she whispered, and she didn't mean for just the coffee.

He knew that. "Absolutely any time," he murmured back.

Well, that was something to chew over.

The coffee was hot and it gave her something to do, so she appreciated it.

Both Wyatt and Flynn reminded her to take her medication. And she rolled her eyes at both of them.

She did, though, and made a face at the chalkiness of the pills as she washed them down with coffee.

"Eat something," Flynn said.

She really had no appetite, or any desire to be told what to do. So she arched an eyebrow, prepared to tell him off, but, annoyingly, he held her gaze. Imploring.

"Pills on an empty stomach could make you sick," he said. "Holding your hair back while you throw up isn't how I'd like to spend my morning."

She didn't miss the implication that he _would_ be the one holding her hair back.

And for just one second, it was nice, _so very nice_ , to know that he would be there for her. Just her.

She had a piece of toast.

Flynn didn't look entirely satisfied, but let it go with an eyebrow raise.

In another twenty minutes, she was forced to admit he may have been correct. She stood, meaning to begin some research, when the world around her spun violently.

She didn't know she was falling until Wyatt caught her.

"Easy," he murmured, one hand behind her head. He was looking at her the way he always did when he was concerned, those blue eyes staring into her soul. She felt the press of his wedding ring on her neck, and suddenly she couldn't stand to be touched by him.

She tried to stand, too quickly, reached for the countertop to brace herself.

Wrapped her fingers around Flynn's arm instead.

He rested his hand on the small of her back, and she took her first breath in what was probably a minute.

She felt him take another step forward, felt him behind her, steadying her.

"Told you so," he murmured, but quietly.

And there was no reasonable explanation as to why he suddenly felt like sanctuary when Wyatt was hell.

He led her to their couch, still mindful of her arm. She swung her legs up, eyes closed. In another second, she felt a blanket drape across her. She took a surreptitious breath, smelled Flynn's cologne again, and was stupidly pleased about it.

It could have been the head rush, but she a premonitory feeling that her life, her already unbelievably twisted life, was about to change again.

And so the weeks went by, and the missions. She watch as Wyatt tried to convince his wife that he was a different man. She, Lucy, knew that was truth. She wasn't sure if Jessica did.

All the while, she drew quietly closer to Flynn.

He had become stability for her in a world that continued to swing violently around on its axis. She had fallen asleep on him twice more accidentally, and once on purpose as they had waited in 1912 for Rittenhouse to make their move. They had been in a rundown hotel, half-frozen in a January snowstorm, and they had never once even bothered to pretend they were doing anything other than sleeping in the same bed because they wanted to.

For his part, she thought Flynn liked to touch her. She expected it now - expected his fingers against her spine, his hand on her waist, his constant presence at her side.

It was a powerful feeling. This man, this deeply damaged, determined, ferocious man…was hers?

It was also confusing. _Was_ he hers? Conversely, was she _his?_

She had to admit that there were nights now when she laid in her narrow bed and wished the arms she had wrapped around herself belonged to him, and not to Wyatt.

And that felt like a betrayal.

At the same time, she was certain Wyatt and Jessica weren't just holding hands behind closed doors. But she didn't like to think about that. It hurt too much.

It all came to a head one evening, in New York, 1925. They had played the part of a couple too well, both of them knowing they were mostly not acting.

She had made a decision, with his full consent.

She had wanted rough, and he'd obliged, but had also held her like she was precious, something to be cherished.

It had been nothing at all like she'd expected.

She had no ability to think, just to feel, to let him do whatever he wanted.

And he had wanted to make her feel very, very good.

After, she was a trembling pile of limbs, robbed of breath, and resting against his chest, his big hand running down her back.

He was far from unaffected.

She had felt his own trembling, had the presence of mind to wonder if this was his first time since his wife, and then she had _known_ it was.

She would die if he felt guilty. She would die if he saw someone other than her behind his closed eyes.

But it was _her_ name he breathed, _her_ eyes he held.

Maybe she wouldn't die after all.

He'd held her for the rest of the night.

And in the morning he was gone.

She'd panicked for almost a minute, then had been forced to breathe loudly as he walked back in the room, armed with two cups of coffee. Of course. It wasn't like they had free cable and mini fridges here.

Still, the sick feeling of abandonment stayed with her until he had demanded to know what the problem was.

He had raised his eyebrows until they'd almost disappeared into his hair, then had set the coffee cups down and crawled into bed with her, fully dressed, shoes and all.

He'd listened, thoughtfully, then had told her in no uncertain terms that she was stuck with him until she kicked him to the curb. And then he'd pushed her thighs apart and made her scream.

Again.

She wondered if her newfound…relationship status…was evident when they made it back to the bunker. They said nothing publicly, did nothing publicly, but didn't hide it, either.

She slept in his arms each night. One of them always left before anyone else was awake.

It was odd - being with him was unexpectedly peaceful. She was possibly the only person in the entire world that he gave a damn about.

And he knew, he always knew, when she was starting to unravel.

When it happened, he would fix it.

He would steal a kiss in the hallway, or tell her an absurd story that made her laugh, or gift her with some small trinket that he'd picked up somewhere in time.

Once, when she was close to having a straight up panic attack, he'd wrapped her in his arms and crooned to her in Croatian, and she didn't know if she had ever felt closer to another living soul.

Rufus caught them once.

It was the middle of the night, after a particularly bad mission. She had been sitting up, thinking, absently scrolling through websites. Flynn had been half-asleep, his head in her lap, legs stretched out. He'd had to pull a chair over next to the couch to have enough room. Her fingers had been in his hair.

And Rufus had stopped dead. Staring. Clearly willing his brain to show him a different image.

She was unpleasantly reminded of when he had walked in on her and Wyatt, a lifetime ago.

"Umm," he said, grasping. "I was just…getting some Advil. Jiya has a headache."

For a ridiculous second, she smiled at how awkward this was. "Okay," she said. "I think there's a bottle in the cupboard next to the glasses."

Rufus nodded, still recovering. "Right. Yeah. Well, okay. Goodnight."

He turned, remembering at the last second to actually _get_ the Advil.

"Goodnight," Flynn called, in an annoyingly cheerful manner.

She couldn't help it. She giggled.

He rolled slightly, looked up at her with amusement. "Have we been outed?"

She shrugged, and she discovered she honestly didn't care. "I guess we'll see in the morning."

He caught the change in her tone and his smiled changed slightly. He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her fingertips.

As it happened, Rufus was silent.

She found herself being vaguely disappointed.

For his part, Flynn became slightly more open about his involvement with her. His hands on her shoulders as she was bowed over a book, looking up some obscure fact that might save their lives, his thumbs moving in tight circles. He flirted openly with her over chess. Tucked a rose in her hair on a mission to France in the twenties.

Wyatt's relationship with Jessica was not going well. Was not going to work.

And when it ended, she supposed she would have to choose.

Wyatt loved her.

But she owned Garcia Flynn. She was in no doubt.

He had never said he loved her, but she never needed him to. He adored her. His world revolved around her. _He_ revolved around her.

It was an instinctive understanding that he desperately craved her touch, her attention. Even now, months later, he practically vibrated at the brush of her hand against his face.

Just to prove it to herself, she slid a hand across his shoulder. He covered it with his own. Squeezed gently.

How could she leave this man?

And why would she want to?

He had become her bulwark against all the evil in the world, which was saying something, because the world was a dark and ugly place these days. As a lover, he was intensely giving. As a partner, he was frighteningly intelligent.

He could read her every mood and expression like she was an open book.

And suddenly she was afraid to lose him.

Without warning, she moved, maneuvering herself into his already open arms.

"What?" he asked softly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she breathed against his chest. "I'm just…" She struggled for words. "It's just that sometimes I remember that we're fighting a war."

He kissed the top of her head. "You can't possibly believe that I would ever let anything hurt you."

No, she didn't believe that. Not for a second. He wouldn't.

"It's not me I'm worried about."

He tipped her chin up at that, dark eyebrow raised. She tightened her arms. "You _be careful,_ " she whispered fiercely. "You _have_ to be careful," she repeated. "You just told me you would never let anything hurt me and something happening to you _would_ hurt me."

The look in his eyes was unfathomable. She supposed he was trying to accept that he mattered to her. He wanted to believe her, wanted it badly, and she was struck by the idea that he had gone through the past few months with her assuming he meant very little. Content, even though he thought this was all one-sided.

Her immediate urge was to smack him. How could he be such an idiot? Did he really think she was capable of using him like that, even if he didn't care that she was?

But then…she knew. He didn't think _anyone_ could care about him after the things he had done, not just her. If, by some miracle, his wife and daughter reappeared, he wouldn't even consider himself worthy of _their_ love.

It made her heart hurt.

She rose on her toes, linked her hands behind his neck. Made sure he was looking her straight in the eyes.

"I love you," she said, very clearly.

He shattered.

And, for a change, _she_ caught _him._ Let him cry on her shoulder. Held him until the world righted itself.

When he raised his head and smiled at her, she quit breathing.

And she knew her decision, her choice, had already been made.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: You guys. I don't know why I keep wanting to write this, but here we are. However, I think I've managed to wrap it up in such a way that means it's actually done. Let me know what you think!

 **How to Pretend**

 **Chapter Three**

For the rest of the day, he refused to let go of her. Was always touching her.

Lucy had been forced to retreat to the couch if she had any hope of not being desperately obvious to everyone in the bunker.

He did not actually care if it was.

In fact, he was prepared to make an announcement in the middle of dinner if he thought she wouldn't smack him for it. She would, though, so he refrained.

Instead, he had played by her rules, as much as he could bear it.

That was how this relationship worked, had always worked.

He figured his rules were more fun, but even he had to admit it would be slightly awkward to have Rufus or Agent Christopher walk by when he had Lucy backed against a wall, her legs around his waist.

There were damnably few places he could make love to her here. And they were all uncomfortable and cramped and regrettably not soundproofed.

He had a thing about getting Lucy to say his name.

She typically obliged him.

Even here, where she was forced to whisper and shiver silently, usually straddling his lap.

Being 6'4 was typically nothing but advantageous, but it was a decided hinderance in some situations.

He wanted a real bed with her, like they'd had their first time together. A real bed, with a mattress where his feet didn't hang over the edge, that didn't creak alarmingly when he even sat on it. A bed where he could be the one that did the work, for once, where he could cover her slight body with his much larger one, where he could hold her when it was over, skin to skin, instead of reluctantly straightening their clothes.

Still, they did manage to find a way to sleep next to each other nearly every night. It was still cramped and did not lead to particularly restful dreams, but he wasn't giving it up. The feeling of Lucy snuggled into his side, her head on his chest, was one of his favorite things in the entire universe.

But he decided that his _absolute_ favorite thing was Lucy looking him in the eyes and telling him she loved him.

He hadn't expected his reaction.

But Lucy had held him while he'd sobbed into her shoulder, telling him without words that she had meant it.

It was still impossible to believe.

He had always thought that this was all him, that she considered him a convenient source of human contact and someone to help ward off the loneliness.

Oh, he knew she bore him some true affection, but had always assumed that he was there as a placeholder for Wyatt.

He didn't like it, but if that was the only way he could have her, so be it.

It seemed he was wrong, and he had never been so grateful for it.

Lucy went back to her research, and he sat at her side, making sure they were touching. When no one was watching, he nuzzled her neck, loving it when she alternately leaned into him or swatted at him.

During the next mission, the stars had aligned and they'd managed to stay in an actual hotel. They were in 1951, so there were things like electricity and running water. What a novelty.

He had taken full advantage of the circumstances.

Lucy was left in a trembling heap, a burn mark from his stubble on the inside of one of her thighs. But he was far from done with her.

He'd rolled her to her stomach, put his hands on her hips.

"Oh, God," she'd moaned.

Not quite his name, but he would allow it.

He didn't move for several minutes when it was over. Only the thought that he might actually be crushing her could compel him to crawl off of her, gather her into his arms.

Lucy pressed a kiss over his heart.

"Tell me you love me," he whispered.

She smiled, eyes closed, utterly relaxed. "I love you."

He wasn't brave enough to give the words back, not yet. He didn't know if love was the right word, though he was quite sure it fell in that spectrum somewhere.

He didn't just love her, thought that was part of it. He needed her. He adored her. He was utterly infatuated by her. He would burn the world down with no second thoughts if she asked that of him.

But he hadn't come up with a way of conveying that to her.

Reveling in the luxury, he stretched out.

"Can we bring this bed back to the bunker?" she murmured against his chest.

He entertained a ridiculous fantasy of a) stuffing this mattress into the Lifeboat and b) wedging it into his tiny closet of a room.

"Yes," he told her.

She giggled and he cherished the sound.

He kissed her forehead, her temple, the edge of her cheekbone.

Silence stretched, and he felt her relaxing. He pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. She was always cold, but he was happy to share body heat.

Enjoying the novelty of being in a bed that was long enough for him, he shifted slightly, Lucy automatically repositioning herself to remain against him.

Her fingers lightly skated over his chest, lingered over a scar that could be nothing but a bullet hole. "When did you get this?"

He considered. It wasn't the only time he'd been shot, after all. "If I remember correctly, I think I got that when I was 18, in Chechnya. It was a learning experience."

He could _feel_ her eyebrows raise. "A learning experience?" she echoed. Then she sighed, kissed his chest again. "How long have you been fighting wars?"

He shrugged. "Most of my life, it seems." He paused, fingers sifting through her hair. "I'm ready for some peace."

And he had it, here. With her in his arms. A small oasis of sanctuary in the chaos of battles.

"What are you going to do when this is all over?" she asked.

 _When what was all over?_ he wanted to ask. When they were over? He told himself he was being paranoid, that she clearly meant this fight with Rittenhouse. He forced himself to be calm.

"Well," he began, slowly, folding one arm behind his head. "Assuming this ever ends, and assuming I don't die…"

She smiled against his skin.

"I don't know. I don't think I've ever considered it."

He turned, facing her. "Have you?"

She nodded. "I want to go back to teaching," she said, quietly. "But at a smaller college. Where I can actually know my students."

He knew this, knew that was what she wanted, had always wanted.

"I want to live in a big gray house with white shutters," she went on, cuddling closer to him. "With lots of flowers and a big yard and a front porch with a swing."

He could see it. Could see her there.

He wondered where he fit in this picture, or if he even did at all.

Did _she_ see a future with him?

The answer seemed of monumental importance. "Seems like a big piece of property for such a busy person." He was fishing. Openly. Also possibly praying.

Her lips curved up against his heart. "Oh, I don't know about that. I was sort of thinking you'd be around to do yard work and terrify the neighbors." Despite her teasing tone of voice, he could hear the worry, the fear that he wanted no part of what had become her dream.

"As long as I can be the bane of the homeowner's association's existence," he said. "And as long as we spring for a California king sized bed."

And with that, he could see himself in the picture she painted. She laughed, relief evident. "I thought you might insist on bunker-sized beds, just out of nostalgia."

He kissed her.

Again.

His heart felt lighter than it had in ages. She really did want him.

It was still vastly unbelievable.

And yet…he _did_ believe.

The night passed, and he wished it would last forever. Twelve hours after they woke, he was tiredly climbing back into the Lifeboat, Lucy already settled into her seat. The day had been full of adrenaline rushes and bullets flying and he felt every one of his forty three years. All he wanted now was to flop gracelessly onto his narrow bed, Lucy against his chest.

They jumped.

An hour later, he got what he wanted, her wet hair dampening his t-shirt. He fell asleep dreaming of a gray house with white shutters, rose bushes in bloom in the yard.

That dream became his respite for the next two years. Became what he was fighting for. The woman at his side, and what would be their life.

And, one day, finally standing in the sunlight again, Cold War army bunkers starting to become a memory, he handed Lucy a small silver key.

"Well," he said, gesturing grandly at the ornate door in front of them. "Are you going to let us in or are we going to stand on this porch all day?"

She looked up, grinned as widely as he had ever seen, then kissed him swiftly. Her hands trembled just a touch as she opened the door, the diamonds in her wedding ring glittering in the early afternoon light.

As it turned out, he liked yard work, and the neighbors got over their initial terror of him.

They planted roses.

He hung a swing on the front porch. Lucy loved to sit in it on sunny days, usually reading, but sometimes just thinking.

Their bed was massive, and even though he was deeply and eternally grateful to be able to stretch his legs out, they mostly slept pressed against each other, like they had for the years of their private war.

He still kept a gun in the drawer next to his side of the bed.

Some habits weren't likely to go away.

All in all, he loved this life they were building, were living.

And then Lucy found herself unexpectedly pregnant, telling him with equal parts hope and trepidation.

He had wept in sheer joy.

The fear had come later. Lucy tolerated his over-protectiveness well, doing nothing more than rolling her eyes occasionally when he was exceptionally ridiculous.

He spent hours talking to his unborn child, hands tenderly pressed against the curve of his wife's stomach.

For her part, Lucy looked radiant. Happy. Blissful. Even when she had a very minor meltdown over none of her clothes fitting.

Amelia Grace Flynn was born at 2:37 in the morning. Her mother handled the whole thing much better than her father.

Amelia as a memorial for Amy, a reminder that no one knew what difference one small action could make.

Lucy had insisted on Grace, saying that without that particular virtue, neither one of them would be there. He hadn't been able to come up with an objection.

And so Amy Flynn, very chubby and very content, spent her first night on earth the way she would spend the rest of them - being utterly adored by her parents.

Later, when his wife and his precious daughter were sleeping, both exhausted by the business of being miracles, he had cried again, this time in gratitude.

Despite his efforts to be quiet, Lucy's eyes fluttered, and he hastily swiped at his face. As ever, she saw right through him, and held out her arms without a word. He tucked his face into her neck, breathing a shaky endeavor.

He wondered how he had managed this, after all of the things he had done. The hideous, awful, soul-wrenching sins he had committed. How had he earned this? This woman, this child?

Amy fussed, and he scooped her up, bringing her to the bed with him before settling Lucy in the crook of his other arm.

He couldn't quite describe how he was feeling, until it abruptly hit him, watching Lucy smile in adoration as she touched Amy's cheek, his arms around both of them.

It felt like…redemption. Forgiveness.

He hid his face in his wife's hair, unsure if he wanted to smile or sob.

Amy opened her eyes, already dark and solemn, and looked at him.

And he _knew_.

Absolution granted.


End file.
